A place for a tired old woman to try to figure things out so that the world makes a bit of sense.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Twenty-Four Years

Hecate, one of my favorite on-line people, suggested that it was important to nourish our souls, especially during these times. She recommended poetry.

She's right of course. Those of us liberal wonks who get caught up in outrage after outrage from the current evil empire risk getting burned out just when our active participation is needed most. Art can save us from that burn out, and it can give us the necessary perspective from which to act.

So, in honor of Hecate and to soothe my soul, I offer one of my favorite poems from Dylan Thomas.

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailorSewing a shroud for a journeyBy the light of the meat-eating sun.Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,With my red veins full of money,In the final direction of the elementary townI advance as long as forever is.